Man & Ghost
by Ludi
Summary: Multi-chapter spin-off from the HoC universe. When Rogue absorbed Remy, she had no idea she was making a new life right inside her mind - with a personality entirely his own. Remy's psyche tries to come to terms with what he is and the purpose he's been created for - and discovers he isn't alone.
1. Chapter 1

**Rating:** General. Nothing too mature. Probably a bit of bad language.

 **A/N:** So basically I've been feeling ill, so I didn't get round to writing and posting the next chapter of _52 Pickup_ like I'd planned. Boo. So I'm putting up this HoC vignette that I've been sitting on the past year or two.

This story is also unfinished, and was meant to play out over 3-4 chapters, but I've only got about 2 done. It takes place roughly over chapters 8-14 of _Arrow of Time_. It's from Remy's POV, but the Remy in Rogue's head, or the psyche of Remy that she absorbed in _House of Cards -_ not 'Remy in the real world'. Hope you enjoy in lieu of more 52PU stuff. ;)

-Ludi x

* * *

 **Man & Ghost**

What does it mean to be a man and a ghost?

To have the thoughts and feelings and memories of a man in a place where thoughts and feelings and memories are phantoms?

He doesn't know.

He doesn't know, but he _feels_ like a man, and if this is what it means to be a ghost, then he doesn't think dying can be so bad. He's not sure he can even die in this place anyway. He's tested some boundaries, pushed them as far as he dares. The last time he went up to the mansion he'd smashed a fist into the mirror on his wall and pulled a shard of glass from the frame. He'd sliced open his wrist, just to see what it would do. It'd bled messily for a few seconds, before the wound had closed up and healed just like Wolverine's had always used to. The blood on the floor had soaked into the carpet and disappeared. And the lights had flickered on and off, as if she'd _felt_ him do it.

He'd considered then, just how much he could influence her from this place. He'd thought perhaps she could feel his pain, if nothing else. He didn't think she'd _consciously_ feel it – but maybe she'd feel a pang in her heart for him. It was…odd. But he'd wanted her to feel it then, and he wants her to feel it now.

.

He'd watched her walk away from him with her words clanging noisily in his head.

 _You betrayed me to Sinister._

 _You did, Remy. Ah was there._

He can hardly believe it, and he's spent the better part of what he thinks is the last half hour cursing his other self for hurting her, for doing this to her. He's ranted and railed and rebelled against the very idea that he has it in him to betray her. He doesn't believe it. He doesn't believe he can hurt her, but he doesn't know how things have changed for him on the outside and he doesn't like it, he doesn't like the idea that there are things he doesn't know about himself. That there are things he can't _control_.

Because he loves her.

And he has done for a long time.

And it's because of that that he knows that his outside self _has_ to love her, unless something has happened that he doesn't know about, unless something has _changed_.

He's twisted in it.

He's twisted and turned in the certainty and helplessness of this love he has for her.

It consumes him in this place.

On the outside, he'd pushed it to the side. Let it tickle tantalisingly at the edges of his consciousness. Invited it in every time he'd needed the sweetness of its balm.

But here he can't push it aside. He can't compartmentalise it into its own little box and hide it away. He doesn't know how and he doesn't know why, but here it's all around him, he tastes it and he breathes it and it _owns_ him.

She is _everything_ to him and when she walks away it hurts, when she rebukes him it stings, when he tries to touch her but can't it's like torture.

But he is here.

Deep in the heart of her.

In a place where even his outside self can't find her.

He hangs onto that fact jealously, covetously.

He is inside her, cradled in the warm depths of her and he has something his outside self doesn't. She can't hide anything from him in here, and he's been surprised to find out that he was right. She is worth every single thing he gave up for her. Every moment spent entertaining a future with her, however brief, however fleeting. She's worth it, and he knows it, but _he_ doesn't, and it's a kind of power he holds over his outside self, but it is an impotent one and therefore completely pointless.

But it's a comfort. It's a comfort to know that he has this secret.

That she is his; and that if he accepts the fact that he is _hers_ he will never be left wanting again.

That is why he curses himself.

Because on the outside he can't _see_ that, he can't recognise it for what it is, and he's gone and done it. He's gone and done the one thing he knew _never_ to do where she was concerned.

He's given her up to Sinister.

.

He climbs the slope up to the mansion; he goes inside and he heads up to the woman's wing. The floorboards don't make a sound under his boot steps; the hazy sunlight follows him lazily down the corridor. He's denied himself this. Promised himself he'd never do this. But he can't help himself. He can't. He needs this now, more than ever. He needs it badly now that he knows what he's capable of doing to her, that on some level he is capable of handing her over to Sinister despite everything he knows he feels for her.

He stands outside her bedroom and gently pushes the door ajar.

It's exactly as he remembers it.

Soft beiges and dusty pinks.

A battered and well-loved throw on the bed. A teddy on the rocking chair. A pile of romance books on the nightstand.

He goes to the dresser and sees his reflection in the mirror, and he doesn't know why he's so amused to see himself there but he is. It is warm and cosy in here, soft and welcoming. There is the scent of her, subtle shades of vanilla and orange blossom. It's the scent she still wears, the scent he smells on the sheets in the safe house, in the room she has made for him here.

He thinks about the times he has pressed her into those sheets and his heart twists.

Silence.

He turns away from his reflection and sees the noteboard above her desk.

It's only as he walks towards it that he sees what's on there.

Her life, mapped out in still-life shots, some in black and white, some in sepia, some in colour. Her childhood a winding river of loneliness, of isolation. Her and Cody in the grass by the banks of the Mississippi. Him, dead and unseeing in her arms.

She becomes hardened. A runaway, and then a fighter. A mutant terrorist with the Brotherhood. And then, eventually, an X-Man. And she's happy. For the first time.

He runs his fingers over the glossy photos, traces the annals of her past with his touch.

It's almost a surprise when he sees himself, even more so when he sees how much of the board he takes up, and it makes his heart jump into his mouth to see how much he's always meant to her when it's taken him so long to accept how much she means to him.

And he sees other things too. The life she's led with him on the outside since he found himself in this strange ghost world. Months spent on the road together, living out of the proverbial suitcase, just the two of them; weeks living in a vacation home with someone he recognises as Rachel Summers (unqualified happiness, everything as perfect as they could possibly have hoped for, neither of them wanting for it to end…) … And then he sees the two of them in Chicago with Logan and the paltry remnants of the X-Men, and _that's_ when he's surprised, when he sees the lengths he has gone to fulfil her dreams, her desires, and he doesn't understand it, he doesn't get it, especially not when…

…When he leaves her.

He leaves her.

He's gone from the story of her past, a trail gone cold… and he just knows that he's gone back to Sinister.

He knows it and it doesn't make sense because after everything he can see he's done for her it's _impossible_ that he could go back to Sinister, it's _impossible_ that he could betray her…

"It's true," a small, little-old-lady voice says behind him, and he starts, he swings round and—

"You left her," says Irene.

She's standing only a few paces behind him, looking over his shoulder at the noteboard on the wall with an impassive stare. He sees that she no longer wears shades in this place – she is not blind, and her eyes are an icy, penetrating blue.

Their gazes meet and he understands in that one look that _she_ is the one who woke him up; that she is the one who woke up Rachel. That she is the one that has been causing Rogue all the turmoil in this place.

"You're de one…" he breathes and she doesn't wait for him to finish the sentence; she nods.

"That roused both you and Rachel Summers from your slumber? Yes."

There is a small smile on her lips, but there is no humour in it. Nor is there sarcasm. There is only the thinnest suggestion of congratulation that he finally understands the truth.

" _Why?_ " he asks; and this time her smile saddens even as it widens.

"Why, for Rogue of course. For her protection. Why else?"

He follows her with narrowed eyes as she moves over to the bed and sits on the edge, facing him, meeting his gaze calmly, expectantly. He knows Irene Adler, and he knows the riddles she always speaks in. But he also knows that if she is anything she is _honest_. That the riddles she speaks are merely masks to hide that inherent honesty. She doesn't have what he has. She doesn't have his easy-go-lucky flirtation with lies.

"You freed me to _protect_ her," he reformulates her words slowly, reflectively. "And Rachel too."

"Yes," she gives a single nod. "And others, soon to come." She pauses, looks aside briefly as if listening out for something. "They will be here soon," she begins again, her eyes sliding back to his. "There is little time to be wasted. If you have any questions you must ask me them now, Remy LeBeau; for soon we will have time only to _act_ , and the moment for questions will be gone."

He frowns and turns fully away from the noteboard on the wall. He doesn't understand her words, not completely – but he understands their implication without having to second guess.

"Rogue's in danger," he surmises slowly.

"Yes." Yet again, she nods.

"And _this_ … everything _here_ … Wakin' me up, wakin' Rachel up… It was all planned beforehand… to keep her from danger."

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"For a very long time, Gambit. For longer than you've been alive."

That alone is almost enough to knock the wind out of his sails. What follows next does more than that.

"And who are we protectin' her from?"

There is a pause; Irene's face turns grave.

"From you."

The world swirls and a few moments later he realises he's sitting heavily in the chair at her desk, a pent up breath whistling noisily between his teeth. His head is swimming.

" _Me_ ," is all he says.

"Yes," she answers him soberly. "It is your destiny, Remy LeBeau, to kill her. It always has been."

He looks up at her sharply, disbelief and pain etching his expression; and he suddenly sees that she now holds a book in her lap. His eyes widen.

"Destiny's Diaries…" he whispers.

"Yes. The future history of mutantkind. Shall I show you yours, Gambit? Shall I show you your fate? What you were always destined to do?"

She doesn't pause for an answer. When she holds out the open pages and shows him that double-page spread, the image of himself as Sinister thrusting a knife into her breast… he almost gets up. He almost strides across the room and snatches the leather-bound tome in his hands, he almost tears it to pieces.

" _Non_ ," he whispers instead. It's the only thing he can get out. Everything else has gone dark and quiet.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, not without a certain sympathy. "I know what you mean to say. That it isn't possible; that you could never hurt her. And I'm afraid to tell you that yes, it is possible, and that in fact it is almost inevitable that this should come to pass. The weight of the universe is tipped in its favour."

" _How_?" he croaks hoarsely, and her smile is sad, like she knows this is hell for him yet she doesn't have the leisure of going easy on him – Time is of the essence.

"Sinister is your father," she explains – another bombshell, so calmly, so unceremoniously given. "He will graft his genetic memory onto you, which, on the moment of his death, will awaken inside you, synthesising the two of you into one being. Mystique will serve her purpose – she will kill him, and you will become him. You will ask Rogue to stand at your side, to join you. And she… she will say—"

"No," he finishes on a single gasp, breaking through the whirlpool. "She'll say no, and if I can't have her, I'll kill her…"

"More or less," Irene's voice penetrates the buzzing in his ears; he barely hears her. He fights for breath, feels a tide of nausea hit him. Too much, too soon, so little time… Rogue's bedroom trembles slightly, an almost-reaction to the agonising tumult of his thoughts.

"Essex… My father?" he finally gets out above the maelstrom. He looks up at Irene with a questing glance, begging some futile reassurance, the hope that this is _not true_. And once again her smile is sad.

"Do you need me to explain what is so patently true, Gambit? Think on it. Think of the times he came to you, healed you, nurtured you, for no reason. Essex is a man of reason, of logic. He does not _do_ without first accounting for every variable first. Why rescue a bedraggled child from the streets? Why help him to regain control of his powers? Why keep him in his employ for so long, this wayward child whose very nature is anathema to him? Why else but to watch you, to enfold you, to keep close his greatest and most cherished experiment – the making of his own son? You _know_ it is the truth. A part of you has _always_ known."

He says nothing. He looks at the ground and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, fights back the nausea. It takes a long while before the small tremor in the room finally dies out. When he looks up at her again his gaze is steely; the book has disappeared.

"What can I do to help her?" he asks her; and this time his voice is level, though quiet.

And this time Irene's smile is full – grim and determined. She stands.

"Come with me," she says.

-oOo-

He follows Irene back outside the mansion and out onto the lawn.

She says nothing and it begins to grate on him.

He needs _something_. He needs something to ground all this, to still the whirling in his brain, to dull the furious protestations crowding his mind.

She walks fast in this place, faster than he had imagined without her blindness and her cane. He is panting as he comes up level with her, as he blasts almost impatiently at her:

"Where are we going?"

"To help Rogue."

"And how can we help her from _here_?"

"Because this place _is_ her, Remy LeBeau."

She marches onward at a brisk pace and he grasps at words that won't form.

She pulls away from him and it's all he can do to make up the distance between them, to reach out and clasp her forearm, to make her halt.

"How de fuck did you figure out how t' do dis?" he rasps at her over the shortness of his breaths. "How come you can just _waltz_ in here and change stuff?!"

The look she levels at him is hard. Cold. Matter-of-fact.

"Because of one thing, LeBeau," she tells him softly. " _Time_. And patience. And there is precious little of the former right now. If you love Rogue, you will not question me. You will do as I ask."

She turns, she begins to walk again without another word. They are by the shores of the lake now, under the boughs of the cedar tree.

He follows her but only because he has no choice.

"And why should I trust you?" he calls after her.

And she stops. Just like that. When she turns to him, the look in her eyes is almost beseeching.

"Because I can't do this alone," she says quietly, and he is stunned because he senses that in her words there is a vulnerability he has never seen or guessed at in her before. "And because I need your help, Remy LeBeau. The fate of so very much hangs upon Rogue's life; but even more than that, I _love_ that child. Just as you do. I do not want her death, just as you do not. If we work together, we can save her. Work with me, LeBeau. I cannot do this without you."

It's as she says the words that thunder rolls across the crystalline sky overhead. He looks up and sees clouds gathering overhead, dark and thick and angry. He holds in a breath. He's never seen the weather turn like this here apart from that one time, the time she had first come to him in this place and she had been scared and confused and upset. And he knows enough about the way this place works to know that rain would only fall when something was _wrong_.

He lowers his eyes to find Irene's still on him.

She holds his gaze, and this time she's giving him a choice, a chance to say no. He can't. He can see in her eyes that she is telling him the truth. He can trust her.

Lightning splits the sky and he nods mutely.

The old woman almost gives a sigh of relief.

She turns and lifts a hand, and her palm touches something solid but invisible.

At her touch a pane of glass ripples into sight, slowly, inch by painful inch and he sees… It's a door. _The_ door. The cloudy, misted one that leads back into the white corridor of Rogue's mind, that he's only seen Rogue herself open.

And now he sees Irene open it. She pushes it gently, without even an ounce of force, and it responds effortlessly to her touch.

She walks over the threshold, pauses, looks back at him standing there with a breath lingering in his throat.

She beckons to him; and the thunder rolls.

He doesn't waste another moment. He steps in after her, and the rain begins to fall.

-oOo-

The door shuts easily behind them, closing off the thunderstorm; and when he looks back it has disappeared.

"Somet'ing's wrong," he says, almost to himself. "Rogue's in pain."

There is a surge of emotion in him so thick that he is forced to swallow it down. Yet again he feels that helplessness, the powerlessness his love for her renders in him. He knows he would do anything to take away her pain, but he can't. Not in the way he wants to.

"Yes," Irene says in a low voice behind him. "She is in a great deal of pain."

He turns to her.

"How do I stop this?" he begs her, and this time she says nothing. Instead she points down the corridor, over his shoulder.

When he swings back round he sees a small, human-sized bundle lying in the middle of the corridor some way off. He is confused; but only for a brief moment. Even as he moves forwards towards the thing lying on the floor, he realises that an absorption has taken place. He doesn't know _what_ is happening on the outside, but what he _does_ know swirls around him and he wades through the pieces like struggling through a quagmire. If he has betrayed her to Sinister, then Sinister is making this happen. Sinister is giving her pain. Sinister is forcing her to absorb someone – probably a mutant.

He reaches the crumpled up form on the floor and when he recognises who it is it takes his breath away.

 _Leech_.

The boy lies in a sprawling heap on the cold, white floors of her mind, deathly pale through the lizard-like skin that is only a part of his mutation.

Remy falls to his knees beside the phantom of the boy and reaches out to touch him. He can hardly bear to. He can hardly bear to touch the innocent young child he sold on to Sinister – his father. He doesn't deserve to touch him. He doesn't deserve to be near him.

"Essex made her absorb him…" he chokes as Irene comes up to stand beside him. "He _forced_ her…"

"Yes," Irene agrees, kneeling down beside him. She touches the sleeping boy where Remy cannot bear to. She runs her fingers over his deformed face, with all the tender care of a seasoned sculptress. "He will awaken soon. We should move him somewhere safe."

"Safe?" He laughs coldly, almost light-headed. "Safe for him, or for Rogue?"

He's losing it. He can feel the world rotating around him, feel it tunnelling in about him tight and claustrophobic, because he can see now. He understands what's going on. For all these years, Essex had been getting him to collect mutants. Bust them out of internments camps, labour camps, prisons and quarantine facilities. Bring them back to base and add them to the collection. Grab his paycheck. Spend it on a night on the town. Go out, get wasted. Fuck some nameless bargirl. Go home, go to bed, get up the next morning. Start all over again.

For this.

For Rogue to absorb them all.

For Rogue to _become_ his collection.

Day after day, night after night, no respite, until every single last soul is a part of her. In here. With them.

" _No_ …" he almost wails, holding his head in both hands and shaking it wildly. "No, not Rogue, not _her_ , he'll kill her, she'd rather die before she lets dis happen t' her…"

Irene's face peers at him through the maelstrom of this horrible epiphany, her blue eyes calm and penetrating.

"Come now, LeBeau. Help me carry him. I cannot do this by myself."

But he can't, he is in pain, he is drowning in it; he can't stand the realisation that he has had a hand in all this, that he might be standing by on the outside and doing nothing but _watching_ this happen.

"How could you let dis happen t' her?" he pleads with the old woman beside him. " _Why_? Dis will destroy her mind, Irene. It'll _destroy_ her! Don't you get it?!"

And he can hardly believe it but she sighs. She actually _sighs_ at him.

"There is a reason, Gambit, that the boy is _here_. It is the same reason _you_ are. To _protect_ her, when she needs it most." She wastes not another moment, but grasps Leech's feet and the glance she throws him is almost fierce when she says, "Now help me take him to my room. There will be time to talk more on this there; but we cannot leave him out here for him to awaken. He _must_ be assimilated. Or do you want to cause Rogue more pain?"

The words cut through his panic like a knife; understanding floods him. He stems the tide of his anguish with an effort, blocks it off into a tiny, neglected corner of himself. He breathes hard – inhales, exhales, long, deep. He scoots round and grasps the boy by the armpits whilst the old woman takes his legs. Together they lift up Leech and although he is nothing but a child, Remy is still surprised at how light and insubstantial he feels. He looks at Irene struggling to balance the boy's weight and something stills in him. He can take this. He can be useful. He can do something to negate all the pain.

"Here, let me," he murmurs over to her, and he takes the entire weight of the boy into his own arms, hoists him gently over his shoulder. In that one action he has mastered himself again. He feels a certain peace.

"You lead de way," he says to Irene. "I'll follow."

Her gaze is steadfast, assessing; and after a brief moment her features relax – she almost, but not quite, smiles. Instead she nods, and when she turns away there is nothing more for him to do but what he has promised, and that is to follow.

-oOo-


	2. Chapter 2

**Rating:** General. Nothing too mature. Probably a bit of bad language.

* * *

 **Man & Ghost**

It isn't until he walks inside Irene's room that he realises how curious he's been as to what it actually looks like.

From his own room, from Rachel's, he has seen enough to know that what is reflected in them is the place that means the most to them, the place that gives them most comfort. His prison is the safe house. Rachel's is her childhood bedroom. And Irene's…

It's a study.

Decorated with Victorian splendour and stuffiness, brocades and velvets and burnished oak furniture, spindly gilt lamps and ornate oil paintings on the walls. Piles of papers all over the place that he knows instinctively are parts of the _Libris Veritatus_. He casts his gaze over them inquisitively as he walks past, but there is nothing he recognises, nothing that makes any sense to him. Irene is already at the low divan at the other end of the room, beckoning him over. He marches across the room, lays the boy out gently on the plush leather. He takes a step back as Irene kneels down beside the kid and runs her hand over his forehead, and as she does so, Leech's eyelids begin to flicker.

It is only then, when the boy begins to stir into wakefulness, that Remy realises how _afraid_ he is.

It's been impossible for him to forget the last stare Leech had fixed him with. Not hate exactly. Not even bitterness, or disgust. Just bald accusation. Silent and immovable. Following him for days, months, years afterwards.

He doesn't want that gaze on him again.

He can't bear to feel the weight of that judgement on him, adding to the mire of guilt and self-hate that has already consumed him.

That's why he stands back, why he hovers there, wanting to turn away, wanting to walk away from a responsibility that will stay with him for the rest of his life.

It is only the knowledge that this is for Rogue's protection and safety that he stays there on the sidelines as Leech's eyes open slowly and he looks about him with only the mild curiosity in common with all those who wake up in this place.

And for the first time Remy notices that the boy's eyes are green.

He says nothing, his eyes roaming his surroundings with a calm impassivity. He knows where he is. He knows this place even though he's never seen it before, he knows that he's in Rogue's mind. Remy doesn't know how he knows; but when he himself had awoken in that room in her mind, he too had known exactly where he was and what had happened. That is, he can only suppose, part of what it means to be assimilated.

As it is, Leech's gaze takes in Irene's room slowly, meticulously – when it passes over Remy there is only the slightest pause, the briefest flicker there – nothing more – before it moves on, finally resting on Irene's face with simple trust.

For a moment Remy expects him to speak, but he doesn't.

"You know where you are," Irene states more than questions the kid, and Leech blinks; he nods.

"And you know how you got here."

Again, the boy nods, says nothing.

Irene gives a grim, satisfied smile. She stands, moves to the window and pulls the curtains to. Remy stands there, hovering uncertainly, not knowing what to do or say or whether his presence was worth anything at all, despite Irene's insistence to the contrary.

He holds his breath, feeling uncomfortable; and when he feels Leech's eyes on him again he can't look away. He has to meet that gaze.

And whilst he had expected accusation, there is none there – not exactly: what he sees is the unwavering composure rarely seen in a child.

In some ways it is more unnerving than any loathing the kid could have laid on him.

Irene skirts back round the divan and kneels beside Leech. There is no tenderness in her, just the same cold matter-of-factness he has always seen her display.

"I need your help, Leech," she says quietly, quickly. "No – not I – another, the woman whose place this is. Do you remember, Leech? Do you remember the lady with the white streak in her hair?"

The boy stares at her. His expression is flat, unsmiling – but something in his eyes flickers and he gives a nod. Irene smiles, both relieved and indulgent.

"That is good. Time is of the essence, you see. Because that lady is in very great danger, and if she cannot be saved, then the entire world will die with her. _You_ , my dear, are one of only a very select few who can help her, who can deliver her from all the evil that surrounds her and I am asking – no, _begging_ you – to help save her. It cannot be done without you."

Again, the boy's face is expressionless, but he blinks, once – and then he nods. And Irene does a strange thing. She takes his left hand and she kisses it fervently.

"Bless you, dear child," she breathes, and for a lingering moment she kneels there, like a knight before his lady in silent supplication. It is only then that Remy realises, _this is how much Rogue means to her_.

He stands there, awkward, his heart in his throat, when the old woman finally rises and walks back over to him.

"Stay here with him, LeBeau," she orders him quietly. "Make sure he does not leave – at least, not unless he is under your care."

"Where are you going?" he asks her curiously.

"To make way for the other," she answers with a faint, humourless smile. "And there is much I must prepare in anticipation of our plans. Otherwise… all will be for naught."

She turns to the door and just as she is about to leave he stops her.

"There's a lot you need t' tell me," he says in a low voice and she glances back over at him, her expression dour.

"Yes, there is, indeed. But for now, it must wait. In the meantime… keep the child safe, LeBeau. Please."

And with that, she is gone.

-oOo-

At first he isn't quite sure what he's supposed to be keeping Leech safe _from_ , until whatever storm was buffeting the inner recesses of Rogue's mind made itself known in Irene's little space.

There is thunder, quaking, the deep, angry rumblings of something that sounds like a volcano erupting. A couple of times the room is shaken so hard that things begin to jump off the tables and the paintings lurch on the walls.

During all this Remy paced the floor, whilst Leech sat, cross-legged, on the couch, silent and impassive, his eyes nevertheless big and wide with some semblance of disquiet.

Considering Remy's own heightened sense of anxiety, the silence is as grating as any noise. Every jolt, every rumble brings him closer to the horrible fact that _Rogue is in pain, Rogue needs his help_ , and he is stuck here unable to do a thing. He _feels_ her pain and it kills him. It hurts so bad there are moments he can hardly breathe.

He needs to be occupied. He needs something to distract him from this.

There are papers on Irene's desk and he goes to them. He flicks through them and they are all in gibberish, until he reaches the middle of a pile and sees a portrait of _her_ there. A painting done in pencil and watercolour, the faintest of smiles on the warm blush of her lips, a look of soul-striking pathos in her smoky, green eyes.

He drops the papers on top of her, cancelling her out.

The intensity of that look is more than he can bear.

"You're worried about her," Leech suddenly says from the couch, his voice rough and croaky from the deformity of his mutation, and Remy looks over at him, surprised.

This is the first time he's ever heard the boy speak, either here or on the outside, and the momentary shock is born not only from that but also from the fact that the boy should speak to him at all, especially after everything that he has done to him.

He puts his palm on the papers, opens his mouth, answers: "Oui."

It's the only thing he can get out.

The room shudders under another quake, another round of thunder, this time more violently than ever – another cry of help from her.

He can't answer her. It's impossible. He turns away and he swallows, feeling the slow rise of panic begin to surge in him again.

"I think she'll be okay," Leech offers again behind him, and he can't help but let out a mocking laugh, shooting back, "How do you _know_? How can you _possibly_ know she'll be okay?"

And there was a pause, a short silence, before the boy returns in an undertone, "Because there are people that care about her."

The words almost take Remy's breath away, and he slumps into a nearby armchair and covers his face with his hands.

"I can't," he moans, his voice muffled, "I can't stop it. I can't stop myself from feeling her pain in dis place. I can't help it, it's like torture, I can't do anyt'ing to _help_ her end it…"

He takes in a shaky breath and rubs his face with his palms, trying to ease away the dangerous pressure behind his eyes.

"I don't know what it is," he continues miserably. "When she absorbed me… when she _made_ me inside of her it was like all my thoughts, all my _feelin's_ for her were crystallised in dat _one moment_ and buried deep in _here_ ," and he slaps his chest, his heart, with his right hand almost violently. "She's inside _me_ and I'm inside _her_ … It's like a never-ending spiral… I can't get out… I don't _want_ to… but it's _killin'_ me… …"

His sentence is curtailed by a final quake which shudders through the room ominously, only to peter out again after a few moments. In its wake all it leaves is silence. The frisson in the air leaves – the wailing and moaning of the world outside gives way to calm tranquillity, an eerie silence.

The effect on him is palpable. The edge of his anxiety eases, the desperate sense of hopelessness dissipates. Whatever is happening on the outside, Rogue is relaxed now; and he… his emotions mirror hers. Absolutely. He is left in the armchair, calm and dazed, the edges of his consciousness somehow registering the fact that he is _connected_ to her somehow. Deeper and more richly than he ever could have been on the outside.

It is both a curse and a blessing.

"Are you okay?" Leech asks from the couch, and Remy is surprised to see that the boy is concerned for him.

"Oui," he replies weakly. "For now."

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and eases himself back into the chair, breathes deeply. He hopes Irene will return soon. He needs her certainty, her focus.

"She'll be all right," Leech reassures him again, with a confidence that belies his years. Remy shoots him a sceptical look.

"You keep sayin' dat. But you can't be _sure_. Sure, Irene has a plan. But we're in _here_ and she's out _dere_. I don't see how we can fight Essex from here, on de inside." He looks away, mulling on the conundrum moodily. "You don't understand what Essex is capable of. And he's wanted Rogue for a _very_ long time. He won't give her up easily."

"No," Leech answers calmly. "I know what Essex is capable of. He sent _you_ after me, after all. He got you to get me out of a maximum-security internment camp. He put me in one of those tanks, along with the others."

Remy glances at him sharply, astonished, once more, at just how articulate the kid really was – _is_. It was strange, talking to him like this, when on the outside the boy was pretty much mute. He looks aside, shame-faced.

"I never wanted t' do any of dat," he murmurs remorsefully. "I'm sorry."

And Leech answers, "I know."

Remy's given up being surprised. He's too drained, too tired.

He watches as Leech slides off the couch and goes to the papers on the desk. The boy leafs through the pages and stops at what Remy instinctively knows is Irene's portrait of Rogue.

"She'll be okay because people care about her," Leech reiterates decidedly, after a moment studying the picture. "The old lady loves her. And so do you. She'll be okay."

"Do I love her?" he murmurs, half to himself.

"Don't you?" Leech raises a quizzical eyebrow at him.

"Here – _yes_. On de outside – I'm not so sure." Remy sighs, leans forward, looks down into his hands. "On de outside I gave her up to Essex. What kind of a man loves a woman and does _dat_?"

And Leech holds his gaze, answers placidly:

"Did you ever really want to hand _me_ over to Sinister? Do you really believe you did it because you _wanted_ to?"

The kid had a point. A small one, but a point nevertheless.

"You and Rogue are completely different…"

"I know," Leech nods. "But there must've been a _reason_ you handed her over to Essex. And it has to have been a _good_ one. Right?"

He grunts doubtfully. He can't see how he can have any good reason for putting Rogue in this predicament, but it was _possible_ at least. There are so many things he isn't privy to from this place. So many events that have happened on the outside that he doesn't know about. He's seen some of them on the noteboard in her room, enough to know that his outer self _cares_ about her. Just how much, he isn't entirely willing to guess.

The tortured train of his thoughts is disrupted by the sound of the door handle turning and a moment later the door creaks open to reveal Irene – and a tall, handsome, dark-haired woman that Remy instantly recognises as Sage.

He almost gets up from his seat in surprise when he notices her; but when he sees the mild look of curiosity on her face he sinks slowly back into the chair. He remembers what he did to her, and it wasn't pretty – but there is no anger on her face.

"Remy LeBeau," she says in her cold, cultured voice. "Fancy seeing you in here of all places. _Both_ trapped this time, _both_ incarcerated. How ironic."

He doesn't need to ask her how she knows where she is. It was the same when he had first woken up in this place. He'd opened his eyes and _somehow_ he had known exactly where he was and how he'd got here. That he wasn't _real_ – whatever that meant. That he was a psyche in the mind of Rogue.

"Stealin' you was just a job," he murmurs, and she pulls a humourless smirk, replies: "And such a fine job you did. You should be proud of yourself."

Irene cuts whatever further exchange they would have had with her own pithy observation.

"LeBeau did only what he was _supposed_ to do. Had he not done so you would not find yourself here, and all would be lost."

She steps inside the room whilst Sage stands in the doorway and stares at her incredulously.

"You mean this was all your _plan_?" she states just as coldly, and Irene looks over her shoulder back at her, answers obliquely: "Come in; shut the door. You must stay here, in order to be assimilated."

Sage shoots her a nettled look but obeys, and once the door is closed she asks again: "I know your power, Irene Adler. It is the power to see the future. Do you mean to tell me that you foresaw our presence here? That Rogue absorbing each of us serves a _purpose_?"

Irene's expression is flat, level, giving nothing away.

"You are a clever woman, Tessa Niles. You know that what you say is the truth."

Sage says nothing for a moment, but looks at the room about her before saying slowly: "So we are here because Rogue needs our help. Our _powers_."

"Correct," Irene nods.

Sage's eyes narrow.

"I don't like being used," she remarks frostily.

"And yet ironically that is _all_ your life has been," Irene retorts. "In the theatre of war, with the X-Men, and the Hellfire Club… All you have ever been is a pawn. It is all _any_ of us are. Myself included."

Remy holds his breath involuntarily, hearing for the first time, and from the horse's mouth, exactly the thing he had long-suspected and disdained. That all they were all pawns in a cosmic game of chess. And just as he had done on the outside, Sage scoffs.

"Fate or no fate, we all make _choices_ , old woman," she speaks contemptuously. "And _you_ consciously made a choice to use me, _us_ – and I _do not_ like it."

For a few seconds the two women stare at one another, their indomitable wills clashing in a silent, unseen battle.

"Will you not help me?" Irene asks softly, at last. And Sage's smile is acrid.

"What choice do I have here? In a place where I cannot live, where my existence means nothing but for the purpose you would have me here for? Yes – I will help you. But only because it will do me no good to sit here idle."

Remy is interested to notice that Irene doesn't give her any thanks, and certainly not in the way that she had fallen to her knees before Leech – instead she bows her head briefly, silently, a mere token of thanks but nothing more, sensing, perhaps, that overt thanks was not wanted.

Satisfied of Sage's loyalty, at least for now, Irene turns to Remy, and he notices that her expression is solemn.

"LeBeau," she addresses him quietly, "will you walk with me?"

Her tone shows that she will brook no refusal, and he stands slowly. She moves to the door, expecting him to follow, saying as she does so: "Watch the child, Tessa, and do not leave this room – at least, not until we can be certain that Rogue is stable again."

Sage makes no reply, but Remy senses that she can be trusted and so he follows Irene out of the room without once looking back.

.

They are in the white, white corridor of Rogue's mind; and Irene doesn't look back at him – she reaches out and suddenly she is pushing her palm against that misty glass door, opening it onto the phantom world that Rogue had made for herself.

He steps onto the lawn of the mansion's extensive grounds: the grass is damp and sparkling, as if recently touched by rain.

"Sage was awake," he murmurs mostly to himself, realising that, unlike Leech, the woman had been completely conscious, and yet seemed to have been fully assimilated. Irene glances across at him and smiled.

"You forget, LeBeau. She is a human computer. She knew where she was and why, even as she was being absorbed, I believe. Perhaps she had already taken steps to assimilate herself. Whatever the case, Rogue has not been adversely affected by her unexpected arrival." She walks on, towards the lake. Again her pace is quick, self-assured. He sees her face, her lips pursed with concentration, her brow furrowed in thought. There is a purposefulness to her, a determination that he cannot help but admire, perhaps because he sees it in himself.

"There is much I must tell you, Remy," she begins, using his first name with an intimacy she hasn't used before. "So much, indeed, that I hardly know where to begin. Perhaps it is best if _you_ ask _me_ – and I will _try_ to answer."

He doesn't know where to start either; yet as soon as he opens his mouth the words start tumbling out.

"Essex is my father?" he asks, and the words are so horrifically simple and understated that it's almost ridiculous that they cause him such revulsion.

"Yes," she replies.

They are nearing the lake, and it is only when they reach the banks that she stops. He comes to a standstill, waiting patiently for her to continue as she stares down into the water with her crystalline blue eyes.

"He made you," she tells him softly. "And make no mistake – he made you to be a weapon – the greatest possible expression of mutantkind. You were his experiment, his crowning achievement. A being of terrible power that could destroy the world. Had you been brought up under Essex's care, there would have been nothing in this world that could've stopped him – or you. Your Omega level powers – the ability to tap into the kinetic flow of Time itself – would have rendered him invincible. He would've grafted himself onto you and created a monster." She passes him a sidelong glance, small and shrewd. "But you were taken from his care, and the horrible eventuality was diverted."

He sucks in a breath and looks aside, down to the water at his feet, tries to take it all in.

"And lemme guess," he murmurs quietly, " _you_ were the one who took me away from him. Who gave me t' de Thieves Guild."

"Yes." She nods with a wry smile on her face. "And I think, all things considered, that it was the right decision."

His lips tighten. He barely knows what to feel about this revelations – except that a part of him has always known it to be the truth.

"And where does Rogue come into all this?" he asks instead, his thoughts going instinctively towards her.

"Rogue?"

The little old woman beside him sighs, looks up to the heavens and closes her eyes.

"Where to begin, except that in many ways she is the be all and end all in all of this?" She opens her eyes again and squints out into the never-ending distance, the impenetrable, crystalline mist that surrounds them. "Essex wanted her too, and for the same reason he made you. To create a being of unstoppable power. With her powers she can be _every_ mutant that has ever lived. The two of you, together – you as his receptacle; her as his willing servant – you were both his plan for world domination. For a world ruled by mutants."

He stares at her.

"So _dat's_ why he's always wanted her," he states.

"Yes." She looks at him fully then, her gaze intense. "You have no idea, do you, of the very great power that girl holds. In fact, her abilities give her an amazing breadth and scope for _unlimited_ power. Were she to absorb all the known living mutants in this world… those who have not been born yet… Were she to be under Essex's control…"

She trails off, the implication of her silence nevertheless clear.

"She'll never allow him t' do dat," he murmurs.

"No," Irene replies sadly. "And he – _you_ – will kill her for it. Unless, of course, my plan _here_ works."

The suggestion that he can hurt her – that there is a part of him that is capable of taking her life despite being under Essex's control – still makes him physically ill.

"And dis is what your future has told you, huh?" he questions bitterly. "Dat _everyt'ing_ I've ever done in my life will lead t' _dis_? Rogue, dyin' at my hands?"

She hears the pain in his voice. She looks at him straight without an inkling of emotion, and somehow he wants, _needs_ , to see some form of contrition, some form of _acknowledgement_ from her.

"Don't you get it, Destiny? All these things I've done, the way you've controlled my life, the way you've controlled Rogue's… Sage was right – you _used_ us and I don't like it."

"And yet," she reminds him pointedly, "like Sage so correctly pointed out – we all have choices. _I_ did not _walk_ you down the path you took, Remy LeBeau. I merely _set_ you on that path – the choices you made were _yours_ and yours alone."

He thinks about it. He still doesn't like it.

"Dat's only partly true and you know it," he mutters. "You _knew_ what my feelings would be, and you took advantage of them. You knew what _Rogue's_ feelin's would be. You pushed us together and now we come t' _dis_. I will be Essex and I will _kill_ her."

And she smiles. Such a genuine, sunny smile that he is piqued to see it.

"Your feelings, Remy LeBeau, are the _only_ things that have mattered in all of this."

There is amusement in her voice, and it is more than he can bear – he rounds on her with his anger flaring brightly.

"I _love_ her! Is dat a joke t' you or somet'ing?! Is it a toy for you t' play wit'?!"

And he sees that her smile is sad; that the amusement in her voice had been a pained one.

"Remy LeBeau," she says softly, "it is your love for her and hers for _you_ that is the _only_ thing that makes all _this_ possible. That gives me hope. That means that I am confident that Essex's plans will never come to pass." She looks aside, back to the lake spread out before them. "And it is the one thing that I could _never_ induce in either of you. Of course, I _saw_ things. I _saw_ that love long before either of you were born, before I could even know what it meant. But only the two of you alone could forge the _meaning_ of that love. And now that meaning becomes clear. I see it as brightly as the sun shines, as the moon lights the night. You would both fight to the death to preserve the life of the other."

He snorts bitterly.

"And yet you say I'll kill her…"

"And you think she'll let you? You think _I_ will?"

The look he darts her is sharp, questioning. He can hardly believe it. He can hardly believe what she is driving at. Because he understands her now – he understands her plan, or he thinks he does, and it is nothing short of insanity.

"Your plan is for her to _stop_ me. Using…"

"The powers of those psyches currently waiting in my room? Yes. And one other."

He pulls in a breath, lets it out again, long, shaky.

"Rachel," he murmurs. "You woke _her_ up too."

She smiles, nods; and he wonders at the lengths she has gone.

"You see, Remy," she speaks softly, lightly. "You are not the only one who loves her, and who has loved her for a long time. It is her greatest strength, LeBeau. The power to inspire the love of others, deep and unconditional. How she does it is simple – it is merely that she gives only what she most desires. Her _own_ love is deep and unconditional. Who can help but meet that love? _You've_ tried to resist it, Remy LeBeau. You tried _hard_. And yet every fibre of your being could not help but respond to her in kind. _That_ is what I too feel for her, Remy. I would defend that girl's life to the death. I _will_ defend it to the death. My whole life has been for no one but her. And I will give it up to her, and I will give it gladly."

Her tone is low yet heartfelt, and he stares at her. For the first time he realises how high the stakes are; he realises what she's willing to gamble. It is the highest price a person can pay. The length and depth of her devotion to Rogue shames him when he compares it to his begrudging own.

He looks aside and swallows.

"So why wake me up?" he murmurs. "How can any power I have help her?"

She glances over at him in mild astonishment.

"You alone know what you yourself are capable of, Remy LeBeau," she informs him calmly. "Your own memories, your own knowledge and training will be invaluable to her when the time comes for her to fight you. And more than that," she adds quietly, "you are her anchor, you are her harbour. You are the thing that lends her strength, that gives her fortitude. Do you still doubt the strength of your connection, Remy? The ties that bind you together? They join you to one another across the Timestream. They impel you towards one another across the eons. Do not deny the power they give you. Do not underestimate the unbreakable strength of what you share."

"Pfft." He kicked a loose pebble into the lake sulkily. "It ain't _me_ you need t' be tellin' all dis to, Irene. It's de me out _dere_."

"And you doubt the strength of the connection _he_ feels for Rogue, LeBeau?" she asks him.

He watches the ripples on the water.

"You tell me he'll kill her. You tell me you've seen it. It doesn't matter what _he_ feels. De only t'ing I know is dat if Essex decides he wants her dead, he won't hesitate t' put her down."

And she reaches out then. She places a hand on his upper arm and tells him what he's wanted, _needed_ to hear for all this time.

"He loves her, Remy. It wasn't just a moment in time that he felt it. It wasn't just the moment that you were absorbed and began your life in this place." She moves to stand before him, she places her old, withered hand on his heart and looks up him intensely. "Everything you are, Remy… It is what he feels inside _here_. It is the layers upon layers of emotion he has tried to bury and hide away from himself. It is all distilled in _you_. Do you doubt that he does not feel what _you_ feel? Do you doubt that the essence of what you are is not real? It is more real than you can imagine, and he feels it, he feels it deeply."

"But how deep has he buried those feelin's, Irene?" he counters sadly. "How hard has he pushed them away?"

She sighs, drops her hand.

"Let me tell you something," she states incisively. "He _knows_. He _knows_ that her life is in danger; he knows that Essex will kill her. And at least a part of him suspects that it is at _his_ _own_ hands that she will die."

His mouth drops.

" _What_?"

Her gaze is penetrating.

"He looked into the Diaries. He _saw_ the future I recorded for her. He saw what _you_ saw, what I showed you."

His mind is whirling.

"De picture… of Essex murderin' her… of his knife in her…"

"Yes. And you should know that _all_ his actions since he looked into the Diaries, since he saw the future, have been to protect her from him."

He looks aside, brow furrowed, trying to figure it out, trying to fit the pieces together.

"So why—"

"Did he go back to Essex? Because I told him that if Essex gave him back his Omega level powers, it would be the only way to save Rogue."

He glares at her, the anger surging in him bright and hot.

" _You_ sent him back to Essex?!"

She is unfazed.

"Oh yes. Above _everything_ you need those powers, LeBeau. If this world is to continue, only three things are needed: Rogue, Rachel, and your powers. If any one of those is lost, then _all_ is lost. It is the reason why I sent you back to Essex. It is the reason why I took the risk of Rogue's death. And it is why _you_ and the others here are so important. You are my contingency plan. You are the ones who will save Rogue. That is your purpose, Remy LeBeau. That is your purpose here. It is _my_ purpose here. If you want what is in here to have meaning," and she touched his breast lightly again, "if you want a future for you and her on the outside, you will fulfil that purpose. And I have every faith that you will."

And he sees it now. What he is. Just a horrible, calculated means to an end. His love for her a tool. His creation in this place an instrument. A _contingency plan_.

Sage is right. They – _he_ – is being used.

And he will let himself be.

He will let himself be because he has no choice.

Because he loves her.

And because everything he is is for her and always will be.

-oOo-


End file.
